


The Garden

by mssrj_335



Series: FinnPoe Purple Prose [15]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Falling In Love Again, Gardens & Gardening, Hades Poe Dameron, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by Fanart, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Inspired by Poetry, It's all very dreamy, Light Angst, Love Letters, M/M, Melancholy, Memories, Memory Loss, POV Finn (Star Wars), Persephone Finn (Star Wars), Persephone Goes Willingly With Hades (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Probs some weird imagery, Purple Prose, Reestablishing Relationships, Romance, Sexual Tension, Tenderness, Vulnerable Finn (Star Wars), but not like creepy hades ok, probs some stilted dialogue, romantic imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27627620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssrj_335/pseuds/mssrj_335
Summary: Finn’s skin tingles. Heat blooms in him, much like the first letter. Someone…is writing for him. Sweet enough to melt him, enticing enough to make his head spin. What should he remember? Something plucks at him, much like the melody of the garden in his memory. What could it be?--inspired by a HadesxPersephone moodboard, created by nixies-creations on tumblr
Relationships: Finn/Poe Dameron, Finnpoe, Poe Dameron/Finn, Stormpilot - Relationship
Series: FinnPoe Purple Prose [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744870
Comments: 18
Kudos: 42





	The Garden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nixie_DeAngel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nixie_DeAngel/gifts).



> [ inspired by nixies-creations moodboard on tumblr! ](https://nixies-creations.tumblr.com/post/624728853959639041/day-7-free-for-all-hades-x-persephone-au)
> 
> [also by the poem 'every day you play' by pablo neruda](https://genius.com/Pablo-neruda-every-day-you-play-annotated)

[Sometimes](https://youtu.be/_N-IREy7C9s) Finn wanders. When he can’t sleep. The vastness of the city calls him, an invitation to leave the mundane behind if only for a little while. Abandon the world to forage for life wherever it may be found. In flowers blooming at twilight, birds calling their evening song; it pulls him from his bed out into the night. Every turn and corner hiding something just beyond sight. Tantalizing the senses. The scent of it is strongest in his memory and he can navigate on this alone. Guided with the scent of dew. Sea salt on the breeze. Warm stone. Colors come next, vibrant or muted. Taking vague shape in his mind; like a city reflected in water. Then textures. Depending on the night he’d explored. Sometimes wet, some dry. A rough drag of hewn stone, the softness of a petal. Each corner of the city has its own sense. A silent feeling, burgeoning in his memory, waiting to be found again.

Sometimes Finn wanders to get lost. Giving up familiar paths to follow a pull in his heart wherever it might take him. It’s the only way to find something new. And new he does find. Something hidden. Tucked away out of sight. Forgotten and overgrown. _What senses will mark this place?_ Water. A dense fog parts in wisps. A fountain, mineral-rich and cool. The smell permeates the air, mingles with the fog to create a new scent all its own. He steps through the alley, through the aperture in wonder. Brown and grey, new colors for memory. Desiccated vines still creep up the stone, clinging their skeletal last in the moonlight. His lantern illuminates a bench, a tree, bent and weeping autumn leaves. But what calls him most is the _sound._ The first. The place sings to him, in his heart. As no corner of the city ever has. There used to be such life here; it whispers still. In his hall of silent memories, this place plucks a melody that sounds like a dream long passed to sensation.

He sits at the fountain. Familiarity drifts on the fog. Its wide base catches gentle waves from the tower. Errant drops splash his hands. He smiles to himself, softly. In the lamplight, the city is reflected in the water. Like his memory, inverted. Burning orange and even a dull red under the ripple. The fountain is pristine. So unlike the rest of the alcove. Someone still loves it and the memory of that too swirls on the mist. Tenderly, his fingers meet its surface. Not breaching, just passing over top, like wiping mirror condensation. It’s silly, but in the night’s quiet and seclusion, he just enjoys feeling the water. Its nebulous, clinging texture is cool on his palm, juxtaposed to the relative warmth of the air. It makes him feel at ease. The scent of fog and water and dying flora soothes his heart in a way he couldn’t articulate. A home he’s never known, perhaps. If he’s being maudlin. Still. He doesn’t dare break the water’s surface.

He’s not sure how long he stays at the fountain but it’s long enough that his back starts to ache, hunched as he is. Sleep finally calls him. The night isn’t over but it isn’t young and before it dies he needs to rest, as all things must. As he leaves, water trickling down his palm and trailing in his wake, he spies something. Was that there when he arrived? Curiosity wins. On the bench is a neatly folded parchment envelope. The face of it is empty. The paper is thick, folded once. Inside, written in familiar hand, a note:

_You are here! Oh, you do not run away! You will answer me to the last cry, thank you. I know not your name now, only that which I have loved so long: the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body. You, the forgotten nymph, the one who turns meadows to gold, who nurtures the flowers and blooms in my heart—_

_I even believe that you own the universe, my love._

_Will you remember me?_

Heat blooms in his cheeks, tender desire unfurls in his heart. Is this for him? It couldn’t be. He shakes his head at himself. But that doesn’t stop a traitorous hand tucking the letter into his pocket. He spares the alcove one look, committing it to memory. He’ll be back. He knows the path. He turns, disappearing into the dark and the fog. Behind him, the doorway disappears. A single flower, tender pink and delicate, buds into bloom.

Hope.

* * *

The next time Finn finds the fountain, it’s occupied.

Cool evening clings to him, blanketing his shoulders in a damp chill as he passes under the ram-headed archway. Once inside, it’s colder still. Almost frosted. And a man sits at the water’s edge, bowed over a yellowed book in his lap. The second Finn’s boot passes the boundary, the man’s head pops up. A smile lights his face like he’s glad of his surprise company. Like welcoming an old friend. When it softens at the edges of his eyes, it could almost be mistaken for the smile of a lover.

“Well, hello.”

The man’s voice is dulcet. Soothing. A sharp contrast to the coolness in his eyes.

“Um, hello,” Finn says cautiously, shifting from foot to foot. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude—”

“No no!” The man jumps to his feet, closing his book with a snap and reaching out with his free hand. “No intrusion. Welcome to my garden! I’m Poe.”

Finn shivers as his fingers meet Poe’s. His grasp is strangely cold, and the touch pleasantly creeps up his spine. Maybe it’s just late autumn’s chill…

“This is a garden?” Finn asks, giving himself a tiny shake. He glances around, cocking a skeptical eyebrow at the high stone walls and neglected vines. “Looks like something’s kept you away.”

“You could say that.” Poe looks chagrinned, rubbing the back of his neck, almost shy. “It _would_ be a garden if I could get anything to live. But that’s not really my specialty.”

That look shouldn’t be as endearing as it is on such a clean, cut face. Every inch of him appears hard and stern. But despite this, and his formal ash-colored suit and strange turn of phrase, his unassuming smile puts Finn at ease enough to ask, “What is your specialty then?”

A beat.

Unnerving silence.

Maybe it’s the grey in Poe’s curls or the changing evening light, but his umber eyes takes on a frigid, sharp shade. Like a knife left in the snow. For a moment, he peels Finn apart, strips him naked. Exposed. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating. More of the former takes hold in him but as he goes to step back, Poe murmurs, “Judgement,” like it’s an answer and the look passes. Replaced in an instant with that same almost-bashful smile.

“So what brings you here?”

The change is like whiplash and Finn has to shake himself again to get his brain on the right track. “I um, I found it. Some time ago. I walk at night, sometimes, and it just…appeared.”

“What luck...” Poe looks inordinately pleased at his simple response. “Do you garden? Maybe better than I do?”

“Only small things. Herbs. A few vegetables. Not a lot of room,” he admits, shy under Poe’s interest. “I’m no expert but I enjoy it.”

“I bet you’d have flowers blooming at your feet,” Poe teases. “Given enough time.”

Well, almost teasing. Something in his tone sounds a little reverent and it doesn’t quite sell his lopsided smile. Finn can’t make any sense of it, but he tingles pleasantly anyway at the praise.

“Maybe someday. I’m not holding my breath.”

Poe cocks his head and looks as if he might ask something further. But whatever it is slips away and he changes his mind.

“You’re always welcome here,” he says, softly enough to make the open space feel close. Intimate. “Won’t you sit a while?”

Poe turns half back, gesturing to the fountain’s wide base. A tiny voice in Finn’s head warns against it but it’s small and Poe’s undemanding grin snuffs it out. It’s so easy to follow Poe into the garden, to sit with him at the water’s edge. Breathe the scent of cold air and fresh soil. Where his head warns against it, his heart almost calls out. It strikes as Poe is talking about his failed flowers. He rings in Finn’s heart with almost the same quality as the place itself. Finn hasn’t forgotten the melody, the familiarity burned into his memory from the first visit, and it’s only stronger now. As if he’s known Poe for years, instead of just hours. There’s something in the way Poe looks at him that makes him want to stay.

So he does. Until the alcove’s sky begins to pink with coming dawn. Highlighting a few new flowers he must’ve missed in the gloom. He gathers himself to leave, hesitates at the archway when Poe doesn’t follow.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I…” Poe pauses, like he’s trying to decide how to answer. “—have some things to finish here.”

“Oh.” Finn’s more disappointed than he would admit. Perhaps a part of him had wanted to bring Poe home, as silly as that sounds. “Maybe I’ll see you again then?”

Poe’s answering smile is unbearably gentle, warming even his frigid eyes. “I’m sure you will. Come back to the garden any time you like, you’ll find me here.”

It’s a strange thing to say. Why not somewhere else? Somewhere public or known or easy to find? Finn wonders at it but, as before, a part of his heart is pleased. This can be just theirs. Their garden. A safe place, secluded from all else where even time seems to slow. All the more opportunity to enjoy Poe’s company. So Finn smiles back and nods, leaves Poe with a wave and a promise,

“Ok. I’ll come again.”

* * *

_Scent drifts to him first. Soft, and sweet. The lightest hint of water._

_There’s a precipice._

_A delicate edge of stone, a vast valley below. Fields of creamy asphodel and red poppies bounded by a winding river. Under his feet, grey grass growing greener by the minute. For a long while, he sits. Watching the poppies sway and the grass come to life. It could be a wonderful, peaceful world. In fact, it is. But something in it rings of death. He’s not certain why that is his impression. It’s not uncomfortable here. It feels like home. But beneath the smell of flowers and water is, unmistakably, the scent of fresh soil. A new grave._

_“Thinking hard, my love?”_

_Finn doesn’t jump. Nothing about this is unfamiliar. A shadow curls behind him, into him, and he glances over his shoulder. No, not a shadow. Just that familiar face, cloaked in black, a heavy cowl over his eyes. Only the hard line of his jaw and the pout of his lip is visible beneath the hood._

_“Not at all,” Finn murmurs. “Only enjoying the flowers.”_

_“You’ve made them beautiful this season,” the figure says. One grasping hand pushes away Finn’s white robes, exposes the line of his neck to the breeze. “They don’t deserve it.”_

_Finn cocks his head, indulgent as the shade bends to him. A firm hand cups his jaw, frigid lips kiss gently from ear to shoulder. On the wind, disembodied and senseless spirits of the dead weep and wail pathetically. He sees them, flitting about purposelessly, like shadows or dreams, wandering through the fields of asphodel._

_“Perhaps not,” he replies. “But I didn’t make the flowers for them.”_

_The figure sucks in a sharp breath. Finn smiles, eases back at the shadow’s insistent hands. Grass bends beneath him. Robes part for frozen kisses down his throat._

_“Who did you make them for?”_

_Finn isn’t surprised he asks. He always asks. But Finn indulges him, a fragile smile blooming at each kiss. Bloody poppies spring up beside them. Asphodel wafts on the breeze. He buries his hands in the shadow’s body and sighs, content,_

_“I made them for you.”_

Finn gasps awake, the chill still set deep in his bones. The face is fading, but not before he places it.

Strange, so strange that it should be him…

Poe is visiting him in his dreams. Maybe it _is_ just a dream, but it feels like he's there anyway. For weeks, visiting. Talking softly. Smiling. Over and over, a comfort through long nights. And Finn visits him in the garden there, bent over his book. An errant silver curl falling in his face. A welcoming smile. Finn wants to see him again. And Poe did say that he would be welcome back in the garden, didn’t he? So he hopes that Poe will be there again and goes back.

He wanders under the archway again, this time almost in dreams. He’s tired. Long weeks of work make his feet drag over the threshold but it’s been calling him. For days and days it’s been whispering to him. And something in his dreams… Such vivid dreams. Almost like his memories.

Poe…

_That’s_ what is calling him.

As he steps into the narrow alley, the clatter of the street starts to die away. When he ducks into the alcove, all but the sound of the fountain and the breeze fade to a distant murmur. His heart flutters until he realizes—oh.

Poe isn’t there.

Disappointment leaves a bitter tang on the back of his tongue and his shoulders slump. Maybe it was too much to hope that Poe would _actually_ still be there, waiting. But a part of him did hope. Ah well, it’s still a quiet place. A welcome place. It would be just as easy to read here as anywhere else. At first, he heads for the fountain’s edge. The sound of the water is welcoming and would help him focus on the page. But out of the corner of his eye, he spies something on the bench. He cocks his head. Who would be leaving things in Poe’s garden?

His heart jumps when he sees another neatly folded parchment envelope. On it, his name this time, written in a familiar hand. Inside, a note:

_What a joy to learn you again! How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. And now you do it again. What a wonder you are, my love._ _So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes. Do you remember? My words rained over you, stroking you. Blossoming in your breast as honeysuckle sweetness._

_Would that I taste that sweetness again…_

Finn’s skin tingles. Heat blooms in him, much like the first letter. Someone…is writing for him. Sweet enough to melt him, enticing enough to make his head spin. What should he remember? Something plucks at him, much like the melody of the garden in his memory. What could it be?

He tucks the parchment into his book, grinning. It feels secretive. Special. Something just for him, because who else would come to Poe’s garden? He looks around, just to check. But there’s no one. No sound that breaches the archway except the burble of the fountain and the rustling of leaves. New flowers turn their faces skyward, almost hopeful in their tilt. Soft peonies, red and white. All budding fragrant in the alcove's air. It's so...peaceful. Like the meadow of asphodel. So Finn sits at the water’s edge as before. Flips through his book until his eyelids droop and his bed finally calls him home.

The tree, a willow, buds gently back to life. Vines regain their roots. Pink peonies blossom in his absence.

* * *

Finn is hoping to find Poe again. This time, he does.

It's quiet as always in the garden but tonight he hears a soft humming as he comes to the entrance. Silver moonlight lights the path but inside, _oh_ inside is bathed in soft pinks and orange and white from a dozen colored lanterns. Finn's lips part.

_How? Who—_

"Do you like it?"

He finds that familiar voice, that familiar face, in the place he least expects and he can't help but laugh,

"What are you doing?"

“Gardening. Obviously," Poe grins roguishly from his spot on the ground, wintry gaze warming exponentially. So much so that Finn feels the heat in his skin.

Finn blinks, and can't contain his smile. Or his eyes. Poe's stripped out of the same ash-grey jacket, the sleeves of his crisp shirt wrinkled and rolled to his elbows. His hands and knees are stained with dirt. And all around him is the evidence of his work. Shrubs with delicate red flowers flank the stone bench, some of them already showing signs of fruiting. And there's more. It's as if the garden has burst into life. Roses. Peonies. Vining burgundy flowers, soft as satin.

"Poe." A soft, thick emotion swells in his throat. "It's...beautiful."

Surely there are better words for it, but right now he can't find them. Because watching Poe get to his feet, brushing the dirt from his hands, Finn thinks without a doubt Poe is the most beautiful thing here.

"You're just in time to help me plant the last!" Poe exclaims. "This one will grow the best, no doubt."

Finn follows him to the final bush, looking skeptical. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen these before.”

He runs a paper-thin petal between his fingers, distracted. When he looks back, Poe seems a bit crestfallen.

“You haven’t?”

Well, never might be a lie. There’s a niggling feeling in the back of his mind but he can’t place it so he says, “No. I don’t even know that much about gardening. Just that I’m able to keep things alive.”

Poe’s quiet a moment more. He might’ve softly said, “More than you’d ever know,” but if he did, it’s so quiet Finn’s not sure he really heard it. Poe’s frigid eyes soften a bit more. Whatever bothers him seems to pass and he smiles again. “They’re pomegranates. A delicacy when they bear fruit. A joy to watch bloom.”

Perhaps that’s true at the surface. But the way he’s watching Finn makes the young man wonder if there’s not something more under his words. Before he can ask, Poe kneels before him. Or rather beside the shrub. But his eyes won’t relinquish their gelid grasp on Finn’s heart. And when Poe reaches up for him, welcoming, Finn follows.

“Tell me what you think we should do.”

Poe’s words are soft but they finally seem to break the alcove’s spell. Finn’s ears burn a little in embarrassment, almost ashamed to be so caught up.

“You seem to already know, why do you need me to tell you?”

“Remember, growing isn’t my speciality.” Poe shrugs. “I just want to try something. See the difference between yours and mine.”

Finn sighs out his nose, shakes his head with a shy smile. “All right.” He eyes the shrub. “We’d probably need a hold about twice her size. Deep enough to cover her roots.”

Poe produces a spade each he hadn’t noticed, but as the hole grows, Finn finds he rather likes moving the soil with his hands. Something about it in his fingers, beneath his nails…the earth turns with a gentle sigh echoed somewhere deep in his heart. Poe abandons his spade as well. Together, they scoop the last of the dirt away. Hands brushing.

“We should fertilize her roots, layer in a good mulch and more. Replace the soils as we go.”

Again, as if from nowhere, Finn notices two metal pails. One of compost, rich and deep. The other mulched leaves and grass and wood. Finn takes one, Poe the other, and Poe smiles. Almost to himself. Spreading and layering as Finn had directed. He starts humming again as Finn loses himself in the action. With pails empty, he follows Poe to the fountain and fills. Wet earth breathes new life to the alcove’s air and everything seems to settle into place. This—all of this—it feels more like home than stone walls ever had.

“There,” Poe nods, emptying the last of his water. “She’ll be the most beautiful of them all, you watch.”

Finn cocks his head, charmed at the older man’s surety. “Why’s that?”

Poe turns those dark eyes on him again. “Because you planted her.”

Finn burns. Swallows. He doesn’t know what to say and when Poe’s hand slips into his, he loses all his words completely. Poe pulls him to the fountain. Washes their hands—Finn’s hands—with such a tenderness that it’s all he can do to ask,

“Why did you do this?”

Poe looks at him from under his lashes, almost coquettish in the pink-orange light. “I wanted you to feel at home.”

“I—this is too much, Poe.”

"I didn't add much," he murmurs, gently rubbing Finn’s hands clean in the frigid water. “Most of this is your doing.”

Finn frowns. “But, I haven’t—”

“It’s all bloomed for you.” Poe squeezes his hands. “Because of you.”

Again, Poe must be alluding to something more. But it’s madness besides. Flowers don’t sprout from nothing. Life doesn’t bloom in a void. How would he have ever caused such beauty without lifting a hand? No, surely Poe planted all of this. But he doesn’t elaborate, and Finn doesn’t know what to ask.

Except, “Why pomegranates?”

Poe’s smile seems more tender than before. More fragile. Has he asked something wrong?

“Where I’m from,” Poe says, slowly petting the back of his hand, “they [represent](https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1118911/) life. Vitality and fertility. Regeneration and abundance. An endless cycle. Enduring love. I…want them to remind you of all the goodness you might see in your life. When you’re here.”

Finn blinks rapidly, taken aback by the sentiment. Before he can even get a grip on himself, Poe raises their joined hands. Presses Finn’s fingers to his wintry lips.

“Won’t you stay with me a while?”

Finn’s lips part; Poe stares. When he swallows, the older man’s eyes track the motion and heat again by increments. With a request so sweet, how could he say no?

* * *

_Red satin. Twisting sheets. Someone’s mouth on his skin, every inch of it. Teeth set and shock. Cold enough to cauterize. Ice creeping, from the room’s corners through trailing kisses, straight to his veins._

_He burns from the inside out. From his heart. Frozen and threatening to shatter at the slightest touch. But there’s hands holding him. Keeping him together, fixing him in place._

_“Please—”_

_He chokes. Muscle and bone paralyze under these familiar hands. Someone’s voice, sensuous as their satin sheets, slides through his senses._

_“Please what?”_

_He doesn’t know. God, he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Doesn’t know what he wants. The only coherent thought is ‘please please please please—for me.’_

_“Anything for you,” the voice whispers, like it’s heard him. “Anything, anything.”_

_His grip finds solid shoulders, teeth find chilled flesh. A body moves above him, in him, aching, intimate and desperately cold. And around him the scent permeates his pores. Frigid air. Fresh soil. He bites, tastes salt and sweet and tart. Skin smeared in fruit. Pomegranate. Someone groans. Is it him? Or the person above him? The voice draws him from sensation to the room. Familiar brown eyes watch, wait._

_“Would you follow me?”_

_He gasps. Flounders._

_“Would you? Please?”_

_Yes. He wants to say yes. But there’s ice in his throat and fire in his blood and the two are rending him piece by piece. No, not now—_

_That mouth lays a kiss here, there. On his neck, his chest. Over his heart._

_“Later then.”_

_Yes._

_“Soon?”_

_Yes._

Finn gasps awake, the chill still set deep in his bones. The face is fading, but not before he places it.

_Why?_

Autumn has passed to the cusp of winter. In just a day, it will start settling in for good. And every night he’s been away from the garden, he’s dreamed. Of asphodel fields and insistent hands. Desperate kisses. Poe.

Gods preserve him, even his name prickles like frost in Finn’s heart. But _this?_ Tonight…this dream is more than he can bear. Loneliness cuts through him, a bone-deep laceration. He wants. How could he have what he wants? Surely it’s not meant to be. A stranger in a garden that rings so familiar is nothing more than a dream. Isn’t he?

Finn sighs. Rolls to his side. Frowns. On the pillow beside him, a familiar envelope. Where did it come from? Finn sucks in a sharp breath, bolts upright and tears it open with shaking hands.

_I see the ichor in you that demands its own throne, and I would give it to you, if you would have me._ _I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth. I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses._

_I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees._

Finn’s heart flutters and he reads it over again, mouthing along. Hearing sibilants of syllables in the silence around him. What does that mean? He thinks on spring. Puzzles on cherry flowers wafting on the breeze. Beautiful blossoms. Is that what the writer meant? Some phantom touch rakes him from head to toe and he shivers.

_Oh_. Could it be? His cheeks heat. Toes curl.

Memory unfurls in him, and he knows. How could he have ever forgotten? There’s not a name signed to it but he dares to hope. Could this possibly be true? Dawn has not yet broken. Maybe _he’d_ be there.

Finn runs for the garden.

He finds Poe where he always does.

He finds Poe in the alcove.

Warmth and light and life sit behind his shoulders like a throne, so far removed from the hollow streets and frozen night. At the fountain, he sits straight and proud. A pomegranate split in his hand. Reddish juice stains the bottom of his lip. The corner of his mouth. His fingertips.

When he sees Finn, he smiles wide enough to swallow him whole; Finn would gladly be eaten now. Desperate to replace the fruit in Poe’s hands.

He steps in.

As he passes through the aperture, flowers bloom. Push their way up through cracks in the cobblestone and trail behind him. Poe’s eyes widen; he staggers to his feet.

“Finn?”

He sounds so hopeful, so covetous. Finn dashes to him, throws his arms around Poe’s neck.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he pleads, muffled in the crook of Poe’s neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the older man’s arms encircle him. Hold him as tight as they had in his dreams. “You remember, my love?” he breathes. “Truly?”

Finn pulls away, sniffs back against burgeoning tears. “I do.”

Poe's smile is radiant. More beautiful than anything in the garden. More than anything on Earth, or in Hell. “Are you ready to come home?”

What answer could he give except, “Yes.”

Poe plucks a seed from his pomegranate half. Offers it without pretense. Only with cautious hope. Finn’s tongue curls around his fingers. Draws it into his mouth. Poe gasps, and Finn bites into the seed, nips the pad of his retreating fingers. Swallows around a blooming tartness as Poe caresses his bottom lip. The god’s eyes warm fully at last, the ice melts away, leaves them as tender and bright as a summer’s day.

“Thank you,” Poe whispers. “Losing you come spring is the worst pain I know. I’m always afraid I won’t be able to find you again.”

Finn gently holds Poe’s face in his hands. Behind the stone bench, a familiar portal opens. Asphodel and poppies waft on the breeze and Finn pulls him toward the opening.

“I know,” he murmurs. And he does know, now. But— “Your memory feels like home to me. Though my mind wanders, it will always find its way back to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> anyway hope you liked that  
> self-edited, sorry for the mistakes  
> i'd love to hear your thoughts


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